LEGAL DISCLAIMER: The Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series is the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games.

Profanity level: Scotsman

A/N: Over halfway through TD, I realized I'd made a newbie writer's mistake: I'd written myself into a corner by using third person limited POV. Out of fear, I'd taken the easy way out and stuck to only Price's POV, strangling the story in the process. I had to introduce new POVs to effectively propel the story forward. But just what the hell was I going to do with MacTavish - It's difficult enough trying to get Price's dialogue right! I had to try to get into his head, find his voice and take him for a test drive before writing the next chapter.

As usual, what started out innocently enough spun out of control. Writing the last chapter wasn't very much fun, honestly. This exercise was meant for me alone, and to maybe be shared with Sassy Satsuma. Soon I was having a blast writing it. It involved no pressure and no research for once (except referring back to CITS a couple of times) and before I knew it, it had morphed into a story, a sort of crossover between TD and Sassy's "Caught in the System." I love her characterizations so much and wanted to touch on them. This is meant to be a short little thing, but for now it's a WIP - I'm posting before finishing to force myself to stop picking at it, so I can release this story and get busy with the next chapter of TD. Hope you enjoy, I'd really love to hear what you think. Kinda betaed by Sass. ;-)

Starts the day after he was stabbed, when he actually wakes up.

"Deep breath…yes. Now big breath out – like blowing out candle," says a voice with a thick accent.

I gag as they pull it out. A moment of great relief, until cold air hits my raw throat. I cough; dull pain stabs me. Done this before.

Pressure on my face. "Breathe." Air smells odd, stuffy.

A few sounds and sensations push their way through the gray haze. Warm weight pressing down on me. Beeping. I can hear low voices speaking Russian, feel the air shift as they move around me. A grinding hum just behind my head somewhere.

Time passes. I drift in and out.

The fog in my head is lifting, and there's something nagging at me, something important. I struggle to remember, and suddenly I wish I hadn't. Ghost and Roach are dead. When I last heard their voices, they were calling for exfil - for help. 'Help' came, then they were gone. Forever. Just me and Price now.

My chest is tight, dread coils in the pit of my stomach. I try to swallow, my mouth is dry. I blink and squint into the dim blur. Something blowing air into my nostrils. Can't reach it…I look down at my wrist, feel like my head might roll off my shoulders. Someone's asking me if I remember him. Yes, no…maybe? Looks like there are two of them. They ask me if I know where I am. I mumble at them as they untie my hands. I pull the thing off my face, trying to focus on it – a thin loop of tubing, more tubing trailing from my arm. Someone grabs my wrist, I pull away. They're trying to calm me down, which makes me struggle more. I can't even understand what I'm saying. But I soon tire, and it's lights out again.

I still don't know where I am, not really. I just have a few memories – flashes – of Price and Nikolai talking to me, putting me in the back of the helo. A lot of pain, my head spinning. A bunch of Russians dressed up like Afghans…now there's something you don't see every day. Being carried through dark tunnels. Bright lights. Poking, prodding, and even more pain. The doctor, Misha, telling me I'd be okay - they always say that. The look on Price's face said something else. I don't remember anything after that, until I woke up here, staring at the gray ceiling. I think Price and Nikolai came to see me at some point. Thought I heard American voices too. Maybe I was dreaming.

It's hard to stay awake, and not just from being more tired than I've ever been. Waking up means facing it all. The pain of my wounds. The pain of our betrayal. The pain of failure. Worst of all, the loss of Simon, Gary, and everyone else. The rest of our team dead. Like Price at the bridge, I've lost them all.

He was my best mate, Simon. The brother I'd never had. I was one of the only people who knew about the pills that kept his demons at bay, though he'd chosen not to share much about what haunted him. As stupid as it sounds, he'd now have peace at last.

Gary…he reminded me a lot of myself. I was proud of him, in the way that I'd hoped Price was proud of me, even as I'd often cursed him back in the day for driving me as hard as he did.

Where were they now? Have their bodies been found?

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. I can't do this now, not yet. I have to focus on the living. Have to get better, get my head back in the game. Get out of here. Get payback. And when the time comes, we'll raise our glasses to them, remember them properly…

But for now, I've nowhere else to go, fuck-all I can do. Not like I have a choice - I'm weak and helpless as a newborn. Medics come to check my dressings, and all the shit they've got attached to me. Soon the drugs pull me back under.